


by the cracks of the skin i climbed to the top

by elsinorerose



Series: out here in the dark [7]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Body Horror, Eventually???, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, PTSD, Trauma, disassociation sort of i guess?, family love, i promise???, it's not all bad!!, just so y'all know, oh god i hope this works, probably more than slight, probably significant rulebreaking i have no idea, slight fudging of D&D mechanics, sort of???, they love each other!!, this one gets kinda dark folks, we're dealing with necromancy and stuff here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-29
Updated: 2019-04-02
Packaged: 2019-12-26 12:32:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18282455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elsinorerose/pseuds/elsinorerose
Summary: when the gusts came around to blow me down,i held on as tightly as you held onto meThe Nein endure.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If you haven't read the other works in this series, I would recommend you check them out before reading this one, which takes place almost immediately following the previous work. Title from "To Build A Home" by The Cinematic Orchestra.

Jester is dead.

Fjord can't stop thinking it. It takes him by surprise, like an anchor dropping without warning and bringing him crashing to a halt, and at strange moments, too, moments that don't make sense: when he's helping Caduceus hitch up the horses, when he's cleaning his teeth before turning in for the night, when he's glancing at the map in the morning before they head out. The anchor drops, suddenly, and he's lost his footing, he's stepped onto land after too many weeks at sea.

He doesn't mention any of this to the others. They have their own shit to work through.

"Everything ready?" he asks Beau, who is loading the last of the packs onto the cart.

She sighs. She's been sighing a lot, lately. "Yeah. Everything except…"

They both glance off to the left, where Nott is leading Caleb towards the rest of the group. 

It's still hard to look at him, Fjord thinks. It's hard to see the marks that have been left on him — not just on his body, but on his soul. They're plain as anything, and they  _ hurt.  _ They hurt  _ Fjord.  _ They hurt Beau, and Nott, and Yasha, and Caduceus, too — no question about that. 

Fjord has never been more aware of the fact that the Mighty Nein is his  _ family. _

"Let's give 'em some space," he tells Beau. "Maybe sit in the front with me. Yasha and Cad can ride in the cart."

Beau nods, and they both climb up and take their seats behind the horses, Fjord grabbing the reins. He doesn't have Cad's touch with the horses, but that's not important: what's important is that Yasha, quiet and reliable, and Caduceus, gentle and wise, are the ones sitting in the back of the cart with Caleb. Because that's what he needs right now.

It isn't. What he needs is —

— but Jester is dead.

So.

He passes a hand over his eyes — he's not tearing up, exactly, but it's...it's hard. It's so hard.

"Let's go," says Beau softly.

Fjord grits his teeth, clicks his tongue and gives a light tap on the reins, and the cart begins to move.

*

Jester is dead.

Yasha is used to death by now. It seems to follow her wherever she goes. Sometimes she wonders if she is cursed — sometimes the fact that she has to  _ wonder  _ makes her nearly laugh out loud, because how could she  _ not  _ be cursed? — but other times...other times she finds herself thinking that maybe this is just how life is for everyone. Maybe death, everywhere, is just how the world works.

The thought is...comforting. Yasha would...would like to not be special.

She tucks the heavy wool blanket around her lap a little more tightly. It's still early morning, as the cart rumbles along the road, and there is a sharp chill in the air. They are making their way back to the Dragonwood, back to the mountainside where they found that awful scene the morning it all went wrong, because Nott has told them — assured them — that this is the only way.

"I don't completely understand it," is what she said last night. "Caleb didn't tell me everything, he...he said it was too dangerous, that we shouldn't have taken it in the first place, but he didn't know for sure until he cast  _ identify  _ on it. It's got something to do with necromancy. With bringing back the dead."

Caduceus had raised a hand. "Well, hold on, that sounds — "

"It sounds like the only thing that might work," Nott cut him off, "and so that's what we're doing. And if you're not okay with it, you can leave."

Privately, Yasha has her doubts. Not because she thinks that Nott might be wrong, or that Caleb might have misidentified the necromancer's stone before he stole it from them that dark, terrible morning. It's not even that she agrees with Caduceus that some things should be left alone, should never be meddled with. There are some things you  _ have  _ to meddle with. Because it's the right thing to do. Because if you don't, you don't deserve to call yourself part of a family.

No, it's just…

Yasha swallows. She glances to the side, where Caleb is curled up, staring at nothing, arms crossed under his coat, and when they goes over a little bump in the road, she sees the back of his head get jolted back against the wooden side of the cart. He doesn't even blink.

She takes off her blanket, folds it, and tucks it behind his head. 

It's just that she's long past believing people can come back.

*

Jester is dead.

Caduceus taps a finger idly on the staff laying across his knees, finding a rhythm, and he feels his heartbeat slow to match it. He thinks of grass twining upwards through soil, of the gentle march of ants, of steam rising from water. He thinks of these things, and he is able to breathe a little deeper.

And then he thinks: oh, Jester is dead.

The grass shrivels; the ants curl up on their backs; the water evaporates.

It's not really fair, thinks Caduceus, as he's brought back to the present, to the rumbling of the cart beneath him as they make their way down the forest road — it's not really fair that anyone should have to die twice. Not that he's one to talk, of course. Not that it's  _ terrible,  _ exactly. Not that he has a problem with bringing someone back to life, the right way. Not that death is the worst thing in the world, either. There are so many things worse than death.

But it's not really fair. You shouldn't have to die until you're going to stay dead. 

The knot of anxiety in his stomach that he's been trying to ignore all day tightens. He looks across at the opposite corner of the cart, where Nott is sleeping fitfully against Caleb's side. Caleb might be asleep, too, but Caduceus isn't sure. 

He's worried about them.

He's worried about Jester.

The plan — they have a plan, apparently — doesn't make a lot of sense. They're supposed to try to find this magic stone, if it's still where Caleb told them he last saw it. But after that? Even Nott admits that she doesn't understand how it works. It's a shot in the dark. A shot in the dark that's aimed at necromancy.

"It is called the Soulcollar Stone, it is for creating and controlling the undead, and it is bound to whoever touched it last." Caleb's words, in that same toneless voice he's been using since they rescued him a few days ago. "I dropped it in the snow by the dragon cave. It won't help. It doesn't do what you think it does."

He'd gone silent again after that, and he hasn't spoken again since.

Caduceus thinks about souls, about bodies, about the grasp of the grave. About laws that should not be broken. About the way of things, and the Wildmother's stern gaze. The memory of another day, not too long ago, stirs within him, and he closes his eyes, remembers the green spring dew of the Wildmother's love and strength flowing through his limbs, the divine magic passing from him into Jester's body, the breath returning to her lungs. That was a moment of blessing; that was  _ right,  _ it was good, it was healing. His goddess was proud of him that day.

This day, though? Tomorrow? 

The staff is heavy across his knees. He lays it down on the floor of the cart, but at the last second his fingers slip, clumsy with the cold, and it hits the wood with a thud.

He cannot be party to the creation of...of whatever they are going to try to create. He knows he cannot. He will have to leave, if they are able to find this stone, if Nott's desperate guess is right, if Caleb's lifeless certainty is wrong. 

He's afraid it's going to kill him.

"It's not fair," he mutters under his breath, but no one seems to hear him. They are all lost in their own thoughts. 

Caduceus just feels lost.

*

Jester is dead, and Beau can't stop crying.

It's stupid. It sure as hell isn't helping anyone. She's lost people before, she's lost loads of people, she should be used to it by now, or at least used enough that she can keep it together for the rest of them — because someone's got to keep it together here, for fuck's sake. Who else is it going to be? Fjord, who's numb with grief to the point that he can barely function? Yasha, who looks more lost than Beau has ever seen her? Cad, who's spent the past few days in turns sullen, confused, and obviously terrified of what comes next? 

Nott? Who is broken?

Certainly not Caleb.

So it's got to be her. Only she can't stop crying.

She wipes furiously at her eyes for the thousandth time. Fjord, sitting next to her driving the horses, has been kind enough not to say anything, or maybe he's too distracted to pay attention. Either way, Beau appreciates it. This is hell, just sitting still, crawling their way across the landscape towards the faintest of hopes, unable to do anything until they get there, and quite possibly after. It's  _ hell.  _ If she could just  _ do  _ something, if this were just a case of taking someone down, breaking into somewhere, beating odds, like rescuing Caleb was — if she had a  _ job,  _ maybe she wouldn't feel so fucking useless. 

Jester would know what to say, if she were here. She'd give Beau a hug and tell her not to be so hard on herself; she'd say Beau's only job is to keep being kind, to keep hoping.

But Jester isn't here. So that's not good enough.

It's their third day on the road, and it's nearly sunset. They're deep in the Dragonwood now, and if they push the horses tomorrow, they might reach their destination in less than a day. 

Every time Beau remembers this, her heart flips, and she feels sick.

She clears her throat. "Hey." Leans over to Fjord. "What do you think we're gonna find when we get there?"

Fjord is silent for a long minute before answering. "I don't know."

_ Real insightful,  _ thinks Beau, but it's not her job to be sarcastic right now. "Do you think Nott is right?" she presses him, trying to keep her voice down so the others don't hear her. "Do you think we can somehow, like…"

She trails off, and Fjord gives a heavy sigh. "I don't even know if the stone's there anymore, Beau. And if it is, if it can even do what Nott thinks it'll do, who's gonna use it? Caleb's the only one of us who knows anything about how it works, and he's, y'know…"

"Why wouldn't it be there?" If they start talking about Caleb, she's going to cry again. "No one knew about it but us. Those Cerberus mages weren't looking for it. It just looks like a rock, it's easy to miss."

Now Fjord gives her a sidelong glance. "Are you lookin' for me to reassure you here, or…?"

"I don't know, Fjord, I guess I'm looking for, like, some fucking encouragement."

_ Damn it.  _ As soon as the words leave her mouth she regrets it. Fjord should shoot right back at her, tell her she's being kind of an asshole, but instead she sees him clench his jaw tighter, and he says nothing.

Your one job, Beau thinks to herself. Your one job is to keep this family going. And you can't even do that.

If Jester were here, she'd —

— but now Beau is crying again.

She wipes her eyes for the thousandth-and-first time, and stares at the road ahead, waiting for the sun to go down.

*

Jester is dead.

Nott is wearing the bag full of Jester's remains on her belt. She could not be more aware that Jester is dead, is gone, is dust. They had to scoop her up into a little pouch off of a stone floor — Nott did it with her bare hands, she felt every grain of it against her skin — and when people get disintegrated, they don't come back. Even handfuls of diamonds and the most powerful spells in the world can't bring you back if the Cerberus Assembly took precautions to keep you dead.

Nott knows all of this. So she knows that she shouldn't have any hope.

Which is why this is so ridiculous.

_ Traveler,  _ she thinks, casting her mind back to a few nights ago, to the darkness of her room at the inn, where she stayed awake all night to make sure Caleb kept breathing,  _ Traveler, don't play any tricks on me. You wouldn't, would you? Not with Jester. _

The memory of that dark green hood, of that deep, piercing, verdant gaze, floats before her mind's eye. She remembers the shock of finding someone else suddenly in the room with them — she'd almost gone for her crossbow, but the shadowed figure had raised a single finger to his lips.

_ Wouldn't want to wake him, would we?  _ he had asked in a whisper, nodding toward Caleb's unconscious form in the bed beside them.

Nott had stood there, frozen, until it must have been obvious that she wasn't going to speak, so the Traveler had spoken for her.

_ Your friend is not lost.  _ The voice like velvet, like moss on tree roots.  _ Not forever. She was taken from my sight, for a while, but I see her again now, and she is on her way to you.  _

_ This makes no fucking sense,  _ Nott had whispered back — before realizing that her lips weren't moving. 

_ Don't worry.  _ The hooded figure's mouth had curved in a slow, sad smile.  _ You're dreaming. You're not ready for me to come to you in person, yet, I think. You have only been worshiping me for a few months, haven't you? _

Nott's heart stuttered with fear.  _ Tell me why I should believe you. _

_ You made a promise to her once, did you not? A promise to me?  'If you give her back to us, count me in. I'll spread your word and pray to you and stuff.'  _

_ You heard me?  _ she had asked, wonder widening her eyes.

_ I heard you. And I keep my promises too, Nott the Brave. _

The cart is rumbling to a stop in the snow, and Nott checks on Caleb again. It's become a habit, making sure he is still breathing. He's been so...it's been...he's been rough. Still far too thin. Still far too pale. Still silent, except for one or two sentences, and they've had to press him for those, and Nott hated every second of it.

But tomorrow they will be at the mountain, and it is just possible — it is just possible that there is a chance. Not because of this necromancer's stone — that's clearly not going to help, Caleb knows what he's talking about, you can't just use it to conjure a body out of thin air, it won't call a soul down from heaven or wherever. Obviously.

Nott isn't actually too sure what the chance they have is, if she's honest. She just knows what she was told to tell them.

_ Where do we have to go? _

Green eyes, like bog fires in the darkness.  _ Soulcollar. _

_ Is that a place? _

_ It's an artifact. Your arcane friend will tell you more. _

_ What am I supposed to say to them? _

_ Say whatever you need to.  _ The cloak, already beginning to fade into the night, or the dream fading and taking the cloak with it.  _ But leave me out of it for now. I have my reasons. _

How many times has she replayed this conversation in her head over the past few days? Nott has lost count. There are moments when she's convinced it really was just a dream, brought to life by nothing but wishful thinking; and then her hands start to shake, and she has to go for her flask, because if it was just an ordinary dream then  _ what is she doing leading her family out here?  _

In these moments, after taking a few swigs of whiskey, she forces herself to remember what Jester began teaching her all those weeks ago: about faith, about trust, about strange divine mysteries too big for our little heads, Nott, sometimes you just have to  _ roll with it,  _ especially with the Traveler, because he is  _ pretty cool,  _ but sometimes he doesn't like to tell you everything, he wants you to meet him halfway, and that's sort of what religion is all about, really. Meeting your god halfway.

So that's what she's going to do. She's meeting him halfway, and he's going to have to do the rest.

Because Jester may be dead, but that hasn't stopped her before.

_ end of chapter _


	2. Chapter 2

Jester is —

Caleb starts awake. The cart has come to a stop. Above them, the sky is the same dirty white as the snow on the ground. It is mid-afternoon, he is immediately aware, and it is freezing, and it is silent. There is not even any wind.

He sits up stiffly, his neck and shoulders aching from the way he has been curled up in the corner. How long was he asleep? It was still dark the last thing he can remember, but the sun rises late this time of the year. Have they been moving all day without a break, or did they just not wake him? Why would —

There's a small hand in his, and he glances back down to see Nott looking at him, worry etched on her face. "We're here," she says softly.

And that's all it takes for reality to drive itself into his gut again.

Jester is dead.

Around him, the rest of the Nein — the rest that are here — begin disembarking, Yasha handing out everyone's packs from the back of the cart, Fjord picketing the horses with Beau, Caduceus peering anxiously up at the sky. Nott waits for Caleb to stand up before leading him to the edge of the cart bed and helping him step down into the snow. Her hand in his is clammy, and he can feel her rapid pulse.

"Come on," she says.

Caleb follows her. What else is he going to do? 

She has taken such good care of him over the past three or four days — they all have, they have really pulled together — so of course he will let her lead him away from the road, towards the treeline, where the mountain begins to rise from the earth. They will not find anything useful here, but he's not going to be the one to tell her that. Speaking hurts, anyway. Not physically, not anymore, just…

"You're going to have to tell us where to look, Caleb," says Nott after a few minutes, her voice thin and tremulous. "Maybe you can cast something?  _ Locate object,  _ or something like that?"

Caleb shakes his head. He is past magic right now. Has been for...for a long time.

"All right." Nott squeezes his hand. "Then just point us in the right direction."

The rest of the Nein are silent, picking their way through the snow behind them. Caleb knows they don't know what to say. He knows he's been scaring them ever since they got him back, knows that their grief and fear is eating them up inside. He has seen the way they look at him.

He doesn't care.

By the time they make it to the site of the dragon's death, where he and Jester were captured — it feels like years ago, like another lifetime — their shadows have grown longer, and he can feel Nott shivering. Evening is still a few hours away, but everything looks dim beneath this overcast sky, and it occurs to Caleb that he would like very much to lie down in the snow and go back to sleep.

He can't, though, because Nott is still holding his hand. So he doesn't.

"It was here?" Beau speaks up at his side, stepping forward to look Caleb in the face. "This is where you dropped it? The stone?"

Caleb nods. Well, roughly here. But he isn't going to start leading them on their hands and knees searching for it. There's no point.

"All right, spread out," calls Fjord, and he and Yasha and Beau start moving, kicking up the snow with their booted feet, keeping an eye out for anything fist-sized or larger, occasionally stopping to pick up a rock or a chunk of ice and examine it before tossing it back onto the ground.

Nott doesn't move or let go of Caleb's hand, and he's strangely grateful. Caduceus isn't searching either. He's leaning on his staff, his expression troubled, and Caleb can't blame him. If there were actually any chance of them being able to raise the undead here, he would be troubled too.

He'd still do it, of course. If there were even the smallest chance. But he would allow himself at least a small moment of misgiving. After all, the last time he was certain of anything, look what happened.

They spend another hour there, or fifty-six minutes to be exact, and Caleb is about to turn to Nott and suggest they give it up, even though it will make the tears in her yellow eyes spill over, even though they will all hate him for it, when Caduceus suddenly straightens up.

"Guys." His voice is tight. "Hey. Look."

"Did you find it?" asks Beau, jogging over, exhaustion written plain on her face and body — but Caduceus shakes his head and points at the treeline behind them.

There is something...there.

"What the hell is that?" asks Fjord in a low voice, joining them.

It's a creature, or — Caleb squints, trying to make it out in the bad light — it's a person, only it's moving too strangely to be a person, limping and dragging one leg. And if it's a person, it should be clothed, surely, but it's not, it's naked, grey skin hanging from a stick-thin frame, wrinkles and something else, something like rips or tears in the flesh —

"Fuck," swears Fjord, and the falchion is in his hand suddenly, water droplets hitting the snow and freezing at once. "It's a fuckin' zombie."

Beau immediately whips her staff off her shoulders, ready to rush forward. "Is it just the one? Any of you see any others?"

"Just one, but it's comin' this way."

"It sees us," Yasha confirms. 

Caduceus steps up and rests a large hand on Caleb's shoulder. "You stay here. We'll deal with this."

That's fine with him, Caleb thinks — he has no spells prepared anyway. He does not even have Frumpkin. He hasn't been able to bring himself to call him back, not since the last time he stood here on this very spot. 

"Are you okay for a minute, Caleb?" asks Nott, glancing up at him.

Caleb nods.

"Okay, because I'll just be over — "

There's a sound. It's the strangest sound Caleb has ever heard. It's coming from the...creature, the undead thing, which is almost upon them now, as Fjord and Beau and Yasha hold their positions, waiting to see what it does.

Caleb didn't think he would ever feel much of anything again, but it's  _ horror  _ that curls inside him like a dying leaf shriveling from heat. The creature is trying to  _ talk. _

"Nobody do anything." Caduceus's mouth is a grim line as he steps forward, one hand held up. "Nobody move. What's it saying?"

"Oh my god," whispers Nott.

"We're not going to hurt you," Caduceus calls out. "Not unless you do something first. It's clear you're in pain — we can help you end that pain, if it's what you want."

Nott drops Caleb's hand and runs forward. "Caduceus," she gasps, but she doesn't seem to have any more words, and she stops short before running past him.

The creature comes to a halt, and now it's close enough for Caleb to see its ghastly features, white hairs sprouting from a mottled scalp, ragged black lips, gashes in the grey skin, exposed bone. This was a human being once, a woman, he thinks, though even that is hard to make out for sure, the body is in such bad condition. It must be decades old. Older, perhaps.

Well, they have fought and killed worse things, monsters more hideous. If they have to, the others will be able to dispatch this one too.

_ You look like I feel,  _ Caleb thinks at it, and, bizarrely, this is the moment when its dead eyes finally come to rest on him.

The creature falls to its knees in the snow.

"What are we doin' here, exactly?" asks Fjord, but Caduceus holds his hand up again. The creature is trying, once more, to speak.

"Please," it croaks. Caleb feels his stomach turn. "Please, don't."

"We're not going to hurt you," repeats Caduceus warily, but the creature isn't paying him any attention. Its gaze is fixed on Caleb.

A cold finger of something like fear trails itself down his spine.

"Please," repeats the creature. "Please. It's me. It's me, Caleb."

"Oh, fuck," breathes Nott.

"It's me. Please. It's Jester."

_ end of chapter _


	3. Chapter 3

_ twenty days ago _

Jester is dead.

She must be. She knows she must be. She died, she felt it, felt every atom of her body burst into a million pieces as the light engulfed her, felt herself  _ turn into the sun,  _ so she  _ has  _ to be dead. 

This doesn't explain why her eyes are open. Or why she's breathing. But there must be some reason, because it's impossible for her to be alive.

She lies there, staring up at the ceiling, her breath coming short and fast, and tries to remember what happened.  _ Something _ must have happened before that terrible fire blew her apart from the inside out. She must have been somewhere, been  _ someone,  _ done something. Her life — or death — didn't begin with that explosion. 

Maybe she's in heaven. Now that's an idea. She has a vague sense that it should be a  _ comforting  _ idea, though, and it's not; it's horrifying. Why is it horrifying?

No, she can't be in heaven. She's been dead before, she realizes, the memory flooding over her like a rush of darkness — she's been dead, and she's been resurrected, and neither one of those experiences was anything like this. This is a cold room, a faintly glowing light source somewhere nearby, something stiff but padded underneath her, like a mattress or a heavy cushion, and utter silence. This is new. And this can't be — because  _ he  _ isn't —

Jester sucks in a gasp, coughs violently, her whole body caught in a sudden spasm of fear and  _ life.  _ She is  _ alive.  _ And something — something is terribly, terribly wrong.

"Caleb," she calls, and it's  _ wrong,  _ it feels wrong in her throat and lips and tongue, and when she tries to sit up, wherever she is — when she hits her forehead into something hard above her, something like a pane of glass, and holds her hands up to try to feel whatever it is —

Oh.

No, these aren't her hands. Not at all.

For a moment she just stares. Her skin — this skin — the skin she's seeing is pale, sort of light grey, but with an underlying mottle of shadow-blue, like bruises or broken veins. Two of the long fingers on the left hand are missing. She can see an exposed tendon beneath a bloodless gash on the right wrist.

It takes a few more seconds before she finally starts to scream.

*

Jester is dead.

No, worse than dead. Dead but not-dead. Dead, but moving. Dead, but screaming.

She shoves the huge crystal lid up and off of her, sits up and climbs out of the box or coffin or pod, collapses on the floor with knees and legs and feet that haven't had to bear any weight in...years? Decades? Centuries?

Lies there, in a heap, naked, quivering, still screaming.

Lies there for hours.

If she doesn't get up — if she just doesn't move — then it's not real, right? 

*

Jester is dead. Her bones are dead; her skin, papery and cold, is dead; her veins are dead and empty; her heart is a dead stone in her chest; her leathery tongue is dead; the handful of white hairs clinging to her skull are dead; her eyes, impossibly rolling and darting in their impossible sockets, are dead.

But Caleb is alive.

Somewhere, still in the dark, still where she left him. He is alive, and he watched her die, and now he is entirely alone.

So Jester — dead and screaming — has to get up.

She does. Has to clamp a hand over ragged lips to stop the noise coming from these dried-out lungs — but she does get up.

It's wobbly at first. One of the legs seems shorter than the other, and she wonders if it's a broken hip or something like that, but thankfully there is no pain. Just stiffness and crookedness, like she's some kind of splintered wooden doll that somebody's giant invisible hand is trying to balance upright on a shelf.

She gets both feet under her at last and hobbles across the chamber. It's all dirt and stone in here, and strange blue lights embedded in the walls and ceiling, and crystal, and glass, and twisted metal, and cold. So unbelievably cold. She shouldn't even be able to feel it, she's too dead, she should be part of it herself, like how a fish underwater doesn't know it's wet, but she finds she's actually shivering. Chattering. She has teeth. She hadn't thought about the teeth. If she thinks about the teeth she will be sick — so she clamps her mind shut and staggers forward. 

On a bench or shelf cut into the far wall, there is an onyx casket, like a jewelry box. It's the only thing in the room, besides the five or six other coffins, identical to the one she just climbed out of, still closed with their heavy crystal lids, still presumably...occupied.

Jester makes her way to the bench.

It takes her a few tries before she can open the casket; eventually she has to shut her eyes to do it, because she just can't see these hands, or the screaming will start again. If she shuts her eyes, everything stays numb, or just numb enough that she's able to reach out, fumble for the clasp, open it, and then drop arms to her side so that she can look.

There is nothing inside but a chunk of rock, the same color and texture as the stone walls around her, hemming her in. It's not beautiful or symmetrical in any way. Maybe the size of a fist. Jagged, in places, and uneven.

But it wants her to pick it up.

So she does.

*

Jester is dead.

The dragon is dead, too. A huge, red carcass, scorched and slashed in a dozen places, its massive black tongue lolling obscenely from its broken jaws. The mountainside where it fell looks like it was hit by a landslide. 

Jester slips three times in the mud and slush trying to get to her feet. On the third time, the hand that she's splayed out in front of her to break her fall lands on something sharp.

It's another chunk of stone, maybe a little smaller than the one in the onyx casket that she was standing in front of mere seconds ago. Definitely not the same one. This stone, she sees when she looks closer, squinting in the twilight, has streaks of blue running through it, like the crystal lights in the chamber before, like the dead veins under Jester's dead skin.

She has seen this stone before. Where has she seen it before?

The thought flashes through her mind in the instant that her hand touches the stone, and then she's about to let go, to try standing up one more time from the slippery ground, when —

_ WELL. YOU ARE A NEW ONE, AREN'T YOU. _

It's thunder in her head, a voice but not a voice. While the words are pressing into her brain, any other thought, any perception or memory or consciousness, is impossible. Jester can't even scream. 

And then it fades out. Smoke evaporating from a glass. Her mind is released.

Jester is lying in the mud, frozen, holding a chunk of stone.

She drops it as soon as she's able to move. It takes her another minute to scramble upright, gasping for breath, this chest that isn't hers heaving with the effort, not only of physically standing, but of  _ thinking  _ again. It's like her mind was just wrung out like a wet dish cloth. And that's not all, she realizes as she takes several steps in the snowmelt, struggling for balance — that's not all, there's something else. Something...left behind, somehow, imprints or stains or splashes spilled over from that dreadful not-a-voice, like memories but not memories, coating her brain like a dirty film, and she sees them all —

sees the Mighty Nein looting a grave, a necromancer's hoard, digging through treasure —

sees Caleb, reaching into the snow and pulling out a chunk of stone —

sees his face darken —

sees him, the next night, as the others sleep, as Jester herself sleeps, casting his ritual  _ identify  _ spell in the darkness, his eyes shining blue in the light of arcane sigils —

sees him later, weeks later, on another night, reaching into Jester's haversack, careful not to wake her — hears him whisper something, but it's too quiet to make out — sees him pocket the stone, tears in his eyes —

sees him standing in front of a dragon, sees him drop the stone into the snow at his feet —

sees herself. Herself, Jester, her real self, not this stranger's body. Kneeling in the snow inside of a bubble. Caleb, taking her face in his hands, about to speak. Shouts, at a distance, breaking the silence — the two of them, breaking apart, leaping to their feet —

Sees herself. Slipping in the slush and mud, just like now. Her bare hand just barely scraping against the side of a small, forgotten chunk of stone.

_ DO YOU UNDERSTAND NOW? _

The words force her to her knees. They weigh more than a mountain, more than the whole earth, and Jester is at their mercy until they finally pass.

"Traveler," she chokes when she's able to speak again, the first word she's spoken since the darkness and screaming first began. "Traveler. Please. I need you."

But the Traveler doesn't answer, and Jester thinks: of course he doesn't. How can she expect her god to recognize her, when she can't even recognize herself?

*

Jester is dead. 

This makes perfect sense, she thinks dully as she trudges unsteadily through the forest, watching the sun finish setting below the tips of the trees. It's all becoming clear to her; blindingly, painfully clear. Her eyes — the eyes in her head — the head that she's —  _ fuck —  _ these eyes are burning, like she's going to cry, but there aren't any tears. She doesn't think she  _ can  _ cry. Even though she's moving, even though she's breathing, this body feels  _ dry,  _ feels  _ empty.  _ Each time she moves, it's like she can feel joint rasping against joint, bone against bone, no lubrication, no padding. There's no moisture in her mouth — her tongue is dried meat, even as it moves like live muscle. She thinks she can  _ hear  _ her eyeballs roll. 

But all of it does make sense.

Why reincarnate yourself in a living body? she reasons, putting one foot in front of the other, kicking snow out of the way, stepping over fallen branches. Why experience any more pain or hunger or thirst than you need to? If you've got work to do, if you've got to spend a few weeks gathering components and tracing glyphs and sacrificing thralls to summon a new, fresh, healthy body for yourself — why not be practical about it?

She isn't sure how much of this she's managed to work out on her own and how much is from...it must be him, right? The necromancer? That must be the source of the not-voice, and the not-memories along with it. The Mighty Nein never found anyone, living or dead, when they robbed that ruined grave near Bladegarden and took the stone that's in Jester's hand now.

(In  _ this body's  _ hand. She clenches  _ this body's  _ jaw so hard she feels an ancient tooth crack. She  _ will not  _ think of any of this as  _ hers.  _ She is borrowing it. Like the necromancer whose artifact she carries, she is simply being practical.

Besides, none of this is real. After all, Jester is dead.)

*

Jester is dead, but her friends are not.

She finds their old camp eventually, though it takes her the better part of the night. The signs are all there: the pile of leftover firewood, the small circle of stones with ashes in the center because Nott wanted to try cooking the thing she found in the tree, the scuff marks on the ground from boots and backpacks and armor.

Jester's dead heart rises into her dead throat as she kneels, brushes dead fingers over one of the campfire stones, over somebody's footprint in the dirt where the snow has been cleared. Her friends are alive. There is no blood here, no errant crossbow bolts, no sign of a struggle. The Cerberus mages didn't find them. They probably weren't even looking for them, didn't even care. All they wanted was Caleb.

"I will find you," she promises to the dirt, and she's speaking to Caleb, and to Nott, to Fjord, to Yasha and Beau and Caduceus. Her voice is thin and croaky; she's barely able to force out anything about a whisper, and the consonants are clumsy with this thick, heavy tongue. Even her accent sounds distorted and wrong, like whoever this mouth belonged to ages ago was used to speaking another language. 

Jester swallows. It's like gravel and dust. "I will find you," she repeats as soon as she's able to. "All of you. Wherever you are, I am coming home."

_ YOU ARE COMING TO ME. _

This time she clutches the jagged stone in her hand so hard that she feels the flesh of her palm split, painless yet at the same time excruciating, until the vise grip of the necromancer's mind on hers relaxes. 

(Relaxes, but doesn't release. Not this time.)

It doesn't matter. She breathes, in and out, although she doesn't have to if she doesn't want to, she knows. She could go all day without breathing in this body, without sleeping, without eating, without drinking. Sure would have been nice a day ago, in that dark, cold, empty cell. 

But it doesn't matter. There are only two things that matter, the only two things since yesterday, when the world shrank to a point before it shattered. She stands up, picks a direction and starts walking away from camp, keeps her dead fingers wrapped tightly around the necromancer's stone, refuses to let go.

Jester is dead, but she walks further into the forest, and the darkness gathers around her.

_ end of chapter _


	4. Chapter 4

"Jester is dead."

Caleb hears himself say it — his own voice broken from disuse — so it must be true. He has stopped telling lies. The last lie ever told will stay in that darkened cell where it was born and where it died.

So this must be right, he must be speaking the truth now. 

Everyone is staring at him.

"Jester is dead," he repeats, stronger this time, and it sways, the creature in front of him on its knees, and he can't look at its face, the features twisted in a rictus of anguish and death. And when it speaks again, he nearly falls to his knees as well, nearly has to stuff his hands over his ears, anything to keep from hearing that horrible, choked, rasping voice.

"I'm not dead." 

Fuck, fuck, it's  _ her accent, fuck  _ — 

"It's me. It's  _ me,  _ it's me,  _ please,  _ Caleb — "

"Kill it," he hears Fjord say darkly, taking a step forward.

One blast of eldritch energy hits the creature's shoulder, sizzling into the lifeless flesh, and the scream that erupts from its throat is the worst thing Caleb has ever heard.

"Fuck, Fjord!" shouts Beau from behind him, and she lunges up to grab his wrist, forcing his hand down, while Yasha moves around to guard her. "We're not fucking — "

"Let her talk!" Caduceus's soft voice is raised in alarm. "Let's not do anything before — "

"It's a fuckin' zombie, it's lyin' — "

"We don't  _ know  _ that!"

"Put your hands down, Fjord — "

But it's Nott, of all of them, who just walks in front of the creature, no words, and puts her body between it and Caleb. Who looks up at him with those round, cat-like yellow eyes he knows so well — looks up at him and silently says,  _ please. _

"Caleb." Fjord struggles against Beau's iron grip, and now Yasha has to stand in front of him too, barring the way. "Caleb. It's not her. That's not fuckin' Jester."

"I think we all need to calm down," says Caduceus very carefully.

Beau has both of Fjord's wrists now. No one is moving. No one speaks.

Caleb couldn't move or speak if he wanted to. He just stares. At Nott, tears rolling down her face. At...at the creature, collapsed on the ground, shivering, clutching at its charred shoulder, looking at no one.

"Okay." Caduceus approaches, slowly, palms held up. "Okay. This is what we're going to do. She isn't trying to hurt us. So we're going to sit down — "

"Like hell we are," growls Fjord, but Beau gives him a vicious shake, and he clamps his mouth shut, still fuming.

"We're going to sit down," repeats Caduceus, "all of us, and we're going to talk, and we're going to listen. And then we'll decide what to do.  _ All  _ of us."

Nott sits down immediately, right where she is.

After a moment, Yasha follows.

"It's not fuckin' Jester," Fjord mutters again, but this time he doesn't resist when Beau pushes him down to sit in the snow. She seats herself next to him, keeping one white-knuckled hand on his shoulder, and Caduceus lowers himself to sit crosslegged on Fjord's other side, taking those deep, regular breaths that mean he is trying to stave off a panic attack.

Caleb sees all of this out of the corner of his eye, takes it in without really meaning to, like he's been trained, because it's information, so it does matter; but he can't tear his gaze from the thing on the ground in front of him, and he still can't move.

"Caleb," says Nott softly.

Her voice is enough. He takes a few steps back, blinks rapidly, and then finds himself on his knees, then sitting, next to Caduceus.

Nott waits until they are all down before she moves away from the creature to sit by Yasha. They are in something like a half circle now, with the creature before them in the center, an unnatural tribunal, one that makes bile rise in Caleb's throat. But he can't look away.

The creature has covered its face and seems to be weeping.

Caduceus clears his throat. "Tell us everything," he begins, gentle as ever. "Tell us what happened. Make us believe you."

He leaves off,  _ please,  _ but everyone hears it just the same.

With a shudder, and a gasp, the creature lifts its head and sits up a little, still half-fallen in the dirty snow.

"I touched the stone." Caleb hears the hiss of Nott's breath at the creature's words. "I didn't even know I did it. Caleb, it was when we were in the bubble, just before — "

But it is already too much just hearing his name in that voice, and he shakes his head mutely. The creature falters.

"You touched the Soulcollar Stone," says Caduceus after a pause. "Okay. But that doesn't...I don't see what that — "

"It shouldn't work like that," cuts in Fjord.

The creature looks back and forth between them, miserable and helpless. Absurdly, pity wells up in Caleb's heart, mingled with the horror and nausea and fear that are already there.

"I don't know how it works," it continues hoarsely. "I just — when I died, I woke up in this body, and then I triggered some sort of teleportation spell that brought me here. I've been here for weeks. I've been looking for you all — you have to believe me, it's been  _ weeks…" _

"Caleb," asks Beau in a low voice, "does that check out?"

He says nothing. She must know he can't.

"He did say it was bound to whoever touched it last," speaks up Nott. Her voice is very small. "But I thought it was for — for  _ controlling  _ the undead, not for whatever this is."

"Yes." The creature turns almost eagerly towards Nott. "It does control the undead, but only the ones it creates. This doesn't count. The necromancer is supposed to be the one who holds it, don't you see? He's supposed to wake up in a new body if he gets killed, and then he can just, you know, bamf back to wherever he was and finish things off. He just never expected to  _ lose  _ it."

"And how the fuck do you know all that?" Fjord asks.

The cracked, decayed mouth snaps shut. The eyes are wild.

Fjord turns to Caduceus. "Jester would tell us. She wouldn't hold anything back."

"She might have her reasons!" protests Nott.

"Yeah, and they might be  _ I wanna fuck these people up,  _ Nott."

"So ask her something only Jester would know!"

"It isn't a  _ her,  _ Nott, it's — it's an  _ it,  _ why are we still debating this?"

"I have the stone," says the creature, and it opens its fist for the first time to let the chunk of rock tumble out onto the snow.

A fresh wave of panic breaks over Caleb, and he feels like he's going to pass out.

"There." Nott leans forward, points at the stone, her voice shrill. "That's it, that's what it looks like, you all remember? She's telling the truth."

"That just means she found the stone," says Beau doubtfully, "that doesn't mean her story is true…"

"I swear it's true." It's looking at Caleb again, desperate. "I swear by the Traveler — "

"No, you don't get to use that name."

"Fjord…"

"You don't get to use my name either." Fjord stands up. "I'm not doin' this, Cad, I'm out. Let me know what y'all decide, and I'll abide by the group's decision, but I am out."

He stalks off towards the forest. The others watch him go; Nott is wringing her hands, and Yasha has two fingers pressed against her temples, like she's warding off a headache. The creature has covered its face again.

Caleb doesn't know — won't ever be sure, even in the days to come — what makes him speak at last, whether it's spite or hope or something else, but the words come to him almost without thinking, like they're carried on a green breeze, as if it were springtime and not the darkest days of winter.

"Tell me what I said to you."

For the second time today, everyone's eyes are suddenly on him, Caleb can feel their gazes like fire — he clenches his right fist tight, fingernails digging into his palm, and repeats:

"Tell me what I said to you. You asked me to say something to you. Tell me what it was."

The creature lowers its hands, and, with trembling lips, grisly and somehow heartbreaking at the same time, it actually smiles. A half-smile, barely there, but a smile. Maybe that's why Caleb knows, in the instant before it answers, what it's going to say when it does manage, at last, to get the sounds out.

"You told me that you loved me."

A few moments pass, like a dream, and then Caleb is vaguely aware that he has been sick into the snow, that he is standing up and walking a few feet away, his lungs burning, one hand pressed over his mouth. "It's her," he hears himself groan, "it's her, she's telling the truth. It's her." He can't look at her. He can't look at any of them. He squeezes his eyes shut as tight as he can, and it's still not enough to get the image out of his head.

Nott is by his side in a moment. "Sit down," she urges him, but he shakes off her touch when she tries to grab his arm.

Beau is talking, and so is Caduceus, and someone is calling to Fjord to come back, but it's all a blur — Caleb's stomach heaves again, and now he's on all fours, retching, melting the snow between his hands, and his head is swimming, and Nott is rubbing his shoulder, and it's been weeks, it's been  _ weeks,  _ and Jester — he sees it again, the flash of light, the spell triggering, the dust — 

Jester is alive.

_ end of chapter _


	5. Epilogue

_ one week later _

Jester closes her eyes and takes a deep breath of the sea air.

The salt smell floods into her lungs, humid and sharp, and she revels in it, revels in the wood of the crow's nest railing against the living skin of her fingers, even with a few splinters digging in here and there. She lets the wind play with her hair and make the ribbons tied to her horns dance. The morning sun glows on her upturned face.

Even with all of her spells and Caleb's devoted to  _ polymorph,  _ they can't keep Jester in this body every hour of the day, so her time is rationed. At night she sleeps in the corpse she is still borrowing. Caduceus has to brew her a sedative tea, or else she wouldn't even be able to sleep, she would just be staring for hours up at the ceiling of her berth in the ship's cabin, where she is always alone, because who wants to share a room with the undead?

It's not so bad, she admits, opening her eyes and gazing out at the blue expanse beneath her, where the deck of the ship is like a toy boat bobbing in bathwater. It's not as bad as it could be, anyway — and it's nothing like those weeks alone in the woods and snow, wandering back and forth, unable to rest, unable to warm herself, unable to do anything but hope and pray that her friends would think to look for her there, if they even thought to look at all. 

She can't dwell on those memories for too long, not even now in the sunlight. The shadows of those trees, of the mountainside, of iron bars, fill her nightmares every night. Even Caduceus's tea can't banish them.

But it's not so bad. And it will get better. Has to. Will.

"Jester?" comes a faint call from far below.

It's Caleb. She can just make him out, shielding his eyes with one hand as he squints up at her from the deck.

Jester sighs, her heart thudding almost painfully as she gives him a wave and moves to start climbing down the rigging. It  _ has  _ to get better, she repeats to herself, finding her footholds easily among the ropes as she descends, because this, the way things are right now, is killing her.

Caleb has hardly spoken to her all week. He has hardly  _ looked  _ at her, except for when he is casting  _ polymorph  _ on her to give her another hour of blue skin and warm blood and limbs that are whole. It's been even worse for the past few days that they've been sailing, with these close quarters that mean she can hardly give him any space. 

She can't blame him. What must he see when he looks at her? A walking corpse, a monster. His cellmate for some of the worst few days of his life. If he doesn't associate her with death and decay, it must be with darkness and agony. 

(She hasn't asked how long he was trapped there for, in the end, before the Nein found him. She's afraid to ask. It was weeks that she was alone in the woods, waiting for them. Weeks.

He is still too thin. He is still too silent.)

So she has tried to be sensitive. But it's hard, it's so hard. Nott says that Caleb has only really come alive since they got Jester back, but if this is Caleb living, how much worse was he before?

What did they do to him?

He is waiting for her when she finally reaches the deck, jumping down from the rigging with a foot or so to go, and he gives her a smile, though it doesn't reach his eyes. "You are as nimble as a monkey up there."

"I'm pretty impressive." Jester flexes one arm. "Sailor's guns right here."

Caleb gives a noncommittal  _ hmm  _ and, after a charged pause, gestures to his right, towards some barrels, coiled ropes and crates that are piled against the ship's railing. "I was hoping we could talk."

Her heart in her throat, Jester follows him to where he sits down on one of the low crates. Frumpkin is there already, asleep in the sun. At least Frumpkin hasn't been avoiding her lately.

"What's up?" she asks as casually as she can, sitting down next to him.

Caleb doesn't return her gaze. Instead he scratches the back of his neck and stares out at the waves across the deck from them. Now that it comes to it, he seems reluctant to speak after all, and it's a few long minutes before he finally mutters, "I had some questions, that is all."

_ Me too, Caleb,  _ thinks Jester, but she swallows the thought and just replies, "Okay, shoot."

He takes a deep breath, then another. Then: "You never really explained how you knew so much about the Soulcollar Stone. About how it worked, and how the necromancer used it."

Ah. She'd wondered when they would get to that, truth be told. Awkwardly, she scuffs the deck with one foot, and reminds herself that there's nothing to be afraid of anymore.

"Will you tell the others?" she asks quietly.

"No." His reply is immediate. "Not if you do not want me to."

"That would be nice. It's just...I'm not sure they would understand." Jester remembers the fear in their eyes, the disgust, the horror. "I didn't say anything before, because...the necromancer was in my head."

Now Caleb does look at her, alarm knitting his brow. "What?"

"It's fine!" she reassures him quickly. "It's fine now, you all destroyed the stone, he's gone. But while I was holding it, even though he couldn't control me, he could still...talk to me. He knew who I was."

Caleb swears in Zemnian under his breath.

"It's really okay, Caleb. I promise. I just sort of...I knew things, things that he knew." She bites her lip — she will never forget that voice-but-not-a-voice, stabbing her in the center of her skull. "It was like his memories were bleeding into me, and mine into him. And I still don't understand everything that happened, but I know that stone is the only reason why I'm not dead right now. So it's fine. Really."

Caleb puts his face in his hands.

_ Shit.  _ "Caleb," she begins again, but he cuts her off.

"I am so sorry this happened to you," he murmurs.

"Oh…" Jester's chest aches. "Oh, no, Caleb, it's not your fault."

When he finally lowers his hands and looks at her again, his eyes are red-rimmed. "How is any of this not my fault?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper. "None of this would have happened if it were not for me."

She almost reaches out to touch him, to place a hand on his shoulder or — but she recoils in time. He won't want that, of course. Instead she tries to project a confidence and a calmness she doesn't feel as she tells him, "The only person to blame for any of this is Trent Ikithon, Caleb, and when we find him, we're going to make sure he never gets to do it to anyone else again. I promised you I was going to kill him, remember?" Shadows like iron bars, wrapping around her throat — she blinks in the sunlight, takes a moment to steady her breath. "He won't escape next time."

But Caleb just shakes his head, like he hasn't heard a word she's been saying.

"I'm serious, Caleb."

_ "Du verstehst es nicht," _ he murmurs. "I convinced you to walk out that door, Jester. I told you you would be safe. I killed you."

All the breath leaves her body. She stares at him.

Caleb clears his throat, drops his gaze to the deck at his feet. "If it were not for...for random chance, you would not be here. And I will punish myself for that for the rest of my life."

"You will not." She finds her voice, though it wavers pathetically. "You will  _ not,  _ I won't let you. You did  _ nothing  _ wrong, Caleb, you had every reason to believe — "

"No, I should have known!" he cuts her off, eyes blazing.

"You couldn't have — "

"I should have known  _ exactly  _ what they were doing, because I  _ was one of them,  _ Jester, and I know how they think, and if I hadn't been so  _ fucking  _ stupid — "

"We were starving!" Jester grabs his wrists — he's about to jump to his feet, she can tell, and storm off or something, so she holds him there with both hands, forcing him to listen to her even if he won't look her in the eyes. "We were delirious, neither one of us was thinking straight, we'd barely slept for  _ days,  _ we were being  _ tortured!" _

Caleb says nothing. Every muscle in his body looks rigid, and his eyes are dark.

"I have never — " Emotion wells up in her throat and catches her for a second. "I have  _ never  _ blamed you, Caleb. I haven't even thought about blaming you, it's never even  _ occurred  _ to me. I've just been grateful that you're alive. That we're together."

At these last words, Caleb turns again, pulls his hands gently from hers, and says with faint surprise, "Do you actually mean that?"

"Of course I mean it. I love you."

It's the wrong thing to say, she realizes instantly when Caleb sucks in his breath, she's making it worse, this is awkward enough and they don't need to have  _ this  _ conversation right now too — Jester feels shame rising hot in her cheeks, and she's about to stammer something about being seasick or some other excuse to leave — 

"You do?"

Jester blinks; has he really forgotten? Was he that delirious? "You know I do," she says slowly. "I told you…"

"Ja, I thought — " His voice breaks. "You were leaving me to die, I thought you were being kind."

_ Oh,  _ settles deep into her heart, like a snowflake finally drifting to earth.

_ Oh. _

It's hard to talk now around the lump in her throat. "Caleb."

"You truly — "

"You have no idea — "

They speak over each other for a second, stop, and then Jester presses ahead.

"You have  _ no idea  _ how much I love you." Her eyes sting. "I wasn't just being  _ nice. _ I meant it. How could you think I didn't mean it?"

"You have been avoiding me all week," he replies a little hoarsely.

Jester exhales. "Shit, Caleb, I've been trying to give you space, you've been avoiding  _ me!" _

"Because I thought you — "

"I've been going  _ crazy,  _ I thought you  _ hated  _ me, I thought every time you looked at me you saw, like, a big dead zombie thing, or Trent Ikithon, or something!"

"Why would — "

"Because you were stuck in that dungeon with me for four days! Because I'm — I'm this — this thing, this undead  _ thing,  _ in this disgusting body, and you don't even know the spell to turn me back!"

She's going to hyperventilate if she keeps this up. Already she's forcing back a sob every time she speaks.

"Jester." Caleb swallows, the color high in his face, and brushes the back of his knuckles against Jester's cheek. Swallows again. "When I look at you, I see the person who kept me alive in that cell. I see the woman I love. Nothing else."

"So you do still love me," she hears herself say, and  _ fuck,  _ that's it, isn't it, that's what has been weighing on her heart all week like lead, and as soon as it comes out of her mouth she's having to almost grind her teeth to keep from crying.

Caleb goes very still for a moment, and then he takes her face in his hands.

"Jester," he repeats softly. So softly. "I will never stop loving you. I have never stopped."

Her breath catches in her throat. She can't look at him — tears are flooding her eyes, and all she can think is,  _ thank god, thank god. _

"You are right, I do not know the spell yet," Caleb continues. "But I will find it, and I will study, and then we will get you your body back — your real body, permanently — so that you are...comfortable again. We will do this for you. For  _ you,  _ not for any of us. Not for me. I would…"

He reaches down and takes one of her hands. For the first time in weeks — even  _ polymorphed  _ like she is — for the first time in  _ weeks,  _ it feels like  _ her hand. _

"I would love you if you were...trapped in the body of one of those seagulls over there, or of — " He stammers, searching for words. "Of a fiend. A devil, I...it would not matter, Jester."

"Shut up," she gasps, and she's really crying now. 

Caleb squeezes her hand. "I mean it. It is your heart — it is your strength, your goodness, that I have been f—" He draws in a shaky breath, like he’s catching himself only to realize he doesn’t have to. "Falling in love with. For such a...a long time. It is your  _ heart  _ that I am proud to know."

Jester can't even speak.

"So we will get you your body back.” Caleb’s voice is low and quiet; his thumb strokes the back of her hand. "But that won’t change anything. Between us."

She knows what he means, and it’s just one more wave of love for him rolling over her, but her heart is so full and light at the same time that she can’t help but quirk the corner of her mouth up and ask, through her tears, "It won’t change  _ anything?" _

"Nothing,  _ liebling." _

"Really, you’re not even, like, gonna sleep with me when I'm  _ me  _ again, or…"

Caleb blinks. "Oh, that’s not what I — "

"I mean tell me you've missed my body a  _ little,  _ Caleb, because if the whole zombie thing is doing it for you then we're gonna have to talk, like…"

He ducks his head, blushing, a small smile on his lips. "I have missed your...you."

_ "My body,  _ Caleb."

"I have missed your body." Now he’s the one who won’t look at her. "I've missed your eyes. And your smile."

"And my  _ curves?" _

"And your curves." He’s blushing deeper still. "The color of your skin. The way your hair curls around your horns. That wrinkle in your nose when you laugh, did you know you have that?"

"No," she says honestly, as warmth uncurls itself more and more in her chest with every word he speaks. 

“You do. It’s nice.”

The thought comes to her, and she speaks it without even really meaning to, “I’m glad it’s going to be you casting the spell, Caleb. To change me back.”

“So am I,” he says softly. “I wouldn’t trust it to anyone else.”

“I mean, you’re one of the only people who’s ever seen me naked, so.”

She gives him a sly glance and is rewarded with the sight of his smile widening, though he’s still staring at the deck. “Never change, Jester.”

“I’d  _ better  _ change, I want my butt and my boobs back for good.” She cocks her head at him. “Do you have to like be really specific with my measurements and description and stuff when you cast the spell for it to work right? Because when I scry or cast  _ sending  _ on someone I have to know what they look like  _ pretty well  _ or else I might end up with, you know, totally the wrong person.”

“Ah — no — that’s — ” Caleb looks both relieved to be changing the subject to something lighter and  _ extremely  _ uncomfortable with what the new subject actually is. Jester feels a little tingle of pleasure shoot down her spine. “This sort of magic is — it needs something general, it does not have to be too detailed, just as long as I am familiar with — I don’t have to spell out every inch of you, I just have to give it what it needs to identify who you are. Since I am not making up a brand new person. Just, ah, asking for someone I have already met.”

“Oh, well. That’s good to know.”

There’s a pause, and Jester is going to make a joke about how he’d better not forget to give her her tail, when Caleb actually looks up at her from the corner of his eye and says, “Even so, it wouldn’t matter — I have a pretty good memory, Lavorre.”

Well, now she can’t say anything, because just at the moment she can’t breathe. 

Caleb continues to stare at her, and then he's leaning in, one hand grazing her jaw, and Jester's pulse leaps into a frenzy — but she puts a hand on his chest, stops him before their lips can touch.  _ God  _ is it the hardest thing she's ever had to do. "Not — not yet," she stammers, "not until — "

"Right," he says quickly, pulling away.

"No, it's just…" Jester swallows and forces herself to look away from his lips. "I want to wait. Until I'm actually — until I'm me."

"You  _ are  _ you."

"Until I'm not going to change anymore," she clarifies, and Caleb's gaze softens. He understands, she sees, and he nods, stroking her cheek once before lowering his hand.

"We'd better get me to a library, then. Research to do."

"Yeah," she says lamely. "Yeah. Good plan."

"Because I want to kiss you  _ soon." _

That's not fair, that's  _ really  _ not fair, and Jester almost blurts out then and there that she's changed her mind, it was a dumb idea, they should spend the rest of the hour making out until it's time to cast  _ polymorph  _ again — but Caleb has stood up and is walking away, his hands tucked under the armpits of his coat as if to ward off the cold. 

Jester considers following him. But in twenty minutes or so,  _ polymorph  _ will wear off, and she will have to change herself back again, and she would rather be alone when that happens. More now than ever — no matter what Caleb says — she does not want him to have to see her like that. Not any more often than he has to.

So she reaches behind her and ruffles the still-sleeping Frumpkin's fur before crossing the deck to the mast once more and beginning the long climb back to the crow's nest. They are supposed to reach the eastern shore of Tal'dorei today, if they are lucky, and Jester hopes she can be the first one to catch sight of land. 

She climbs to the top, and the sea air fills her lungs, again and again, and she waits.

_ fin _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my glorious beta-readers, [Shay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shaypotter/pseuds/shaypotter) and [Smoke](https://archiveofourown.org/users/smokeandjollyranchers/pseuds/smokeandjollyranchers), for their help, specifically for saying "Christine, it's fine, it makes sense, the exposition works, stop SCREAMING at us" while I keyboardsmashed in their inboxes. And thank you all for reading! Stay tuned for more to come.


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